


A Difficult Intervention

by BakerTumblings



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Eventual Happy Ending, Hints at Ridiculously Fluffy Things, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, John Wanted a Promise, John Worries when Sherlock has Secrets, John is a Very Good Doctor, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Medical, Medical Examination, Mycroft Being Mycroft, Rehabilitation, Sherlock Has Secrets, Sherlock Whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-02
Updated: 2016-11-10
Packaged: 2018-08-22 09:32:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 18,823
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8281112
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BakerTumblings/pseuds/BakerTumblings
Summary: "Don't fly too close to the sun."Ignoring warnings can lead to grave consequences.  Icarus lived a tragically short life when he disregarded cautionary advice.  It must have been terrible for Icarus' father to know tragedy was coming, to watch a loved one fly arrogantly into a dangerous situation.  Sherlock Holmes ignores practically everyone, and may also be headed for unparalleled disaster.But, the parallel ends there.  Icarus of mythology desperately needed a John Watson to intervene.





	1. John's Ultimatum

"Sherlock!"  John raced around the corner, thinking he heard a soft call, although it was rainy and windy and could have been just street noise.  He lifted his head, listening more attentively, nose up, as if somehow he would scent him on the thick, night London air.  There was a sinking feeling of too-late, too-late, _too-bloody-late_ , and he passed another empty alley.  Scanning side to side, each kerb and side street was as empty as the last.

###

The text had been simple,

**chest pain. alley by coffee shoppe. come at once. sh**

The bed creaked as John flipped his mobile back around, reading the message again as if willing better news this time.  Mary sighed, worn out from her life and their situation and being so very pregnant.

"I have to, Mary."

"I know," she replied dully, and she did.  "He needs you."  Truth is, John had been more than fair, even kind to her when he certainly had every reason not to be.  She knew it; they both did.

Just a few weeks ago, after a horrific aneurysm-popping yelling session (mostly her), she had let too much slip.  Emotional and hormonal and fueled by an angry encounter, she blurted out a few words too many.  Having spent time watching and assimilating some of Sherlock's perceptions, and therefore greatly attuned to details, John heard the possibly accidental _perhaps intentional_ mis-speak.  "What did you just say?" he'd asked quiet and low, sudden brakes to the conversation having just been applied.

Her eyes had been wide as she looked over at him, hand protectively over the 8-month-swollen belly, hoping perhaps he hadn't caught the errant words.  "I didn't mean..."

"Not even yours, I believe were your words?"  Mary was quiet, eyes downcast while John's mind whirled.  Under his breath, to himself, he murmured, "I should have bloody suspected it.  Not even mine, you said.  Hmm, reckon we should discuss this, then?"

And discuss they had.  She mentioned the paternity testing she'd had done discreetly and the fact that she hadn't told _him_ yet, as he was presently out of the country.  John had only asked a few questions about when and why and who, and, surprisingly, was overall rather indifferent about the revelations.  Negotiations had been remarkably easy - it occurred to John that separating was not nearly as painful when apathy had underpinned the relationship.  He agreed to stay with her until after the baby came, offered to continue as her labour coach even, but that was it.  While he wasn't ready to do it yet, he would find Sherlock after the baby came, fill him in, be more of an influence perhaps.  He wished, not for the first time, that time could be reversed back to the Baker Street days, before Mary, before the fall, before Sherlock's renewed affair with drugs.  Now, he wasn't sure about Baker Street.  Honestly, while he would have wanted what they used to have, at this point he didn't think it would be good for himself or helpful to Sherlock either.  

Getting and keeping Sherlock clean (again) was not his job, nor Mycroft's - it fell to Sherlock himself.  He would, hopefully, be a friend to him, support him if he could.  Now that things were dissolving with Mary, he felt even more than previously that if a friendship was to resume, let alone anything more to ever begin, grow, or develop, things desperately needed to change.  He would see about a small flat, hopefully close, move on.

But now, the text had spurred him to action.  "I'll let you know," but Mary was already waving dismissively, had turned back to her book.  Her hand pressed down absently on her gravid abdomen to ease the baby's position out from under her ribs.  Even under the bedclothes, John could see the contour of Mary's stomach subtly change as the baby shifted cooperatively.

John had hailed a cab, sent a text back asking for a street name.  It came back undeliverable, so he had of course rang him.  The phone call went immediately into a canned message that the phone was either not in service, or that the mailbox was full.   _"Please check the number and try again."_   He could have dashed the mobile to the street and trod on it.

###

The coffee shoppe John had assumed Sherlock was referring to, ended up being in a section of the city that abutted multiple alleyways and small streets.  Despite the chill of the night, he could feel the layer of perspiration under his collar and his armpits as he strode purposefully around one corner, and then peered down another.  The blueness of the streetlamps at one juncture, finally, barely illuminated a silhouette, an unmistakable profile even from the distance as John clapped eyes on him.  The alley was otherwise deserted, with Sherlock sitting on the kerb, head leaning back against a post.  A few brisk, running steps and John stood directly in front of the former flatmate who had summoned him.

His astute clinician eyes raked over him in a primary survey.  Breathing was rapid and shallow, chest heaving, shoulders tight with either pain or shortness of breath.  Even under the white/blue overhead lighting from the street, John could tell that his colour was hued gray.  He took in Sherlock's dominant hand that was in a textbook Levine's sign, clutched in a fist over his sternum, an often reflexive sign of cardiac ischaemia.  Without conscious deliberation, John called 999, summoned an ambulance.  He took a knee as the dispatcher connected his call to appropriate mobile resources, telling John to remain on the line.  Pulling off his glove, he reached for Sherlock's nearest wrist, found a markedly elevated heartrate and clammy yet burning hot skin.  Cocaine, probably, this time, he thought with a non-verbal sigh.  Again.

"Hurts," Sherlock gasped at him, his pale eyes narrowing in fear.  Each exhaled breath was through pursed lips, as if he'd been the one running and not John.

"Using tonight?"

His hooded expression, the very deliberate and slow blink, was enough of a yes that John didn't need any affirmative answer.

"The nearest patrol car is close," the dispatcher spoke in John's ear.  "Should be arriving in a few minutes.  Ambulance will be forthcoming after that.  Please remain on the line."

"No hosp-" Sherlock gasped, then stopped to catch his breath, shallowly.

John thought about laying Sherlock down for perfusion's sake but could tell his breathing would not tolerate it and instead would likely panic him and make things worse.  Deftly with one hand, he unbuttoned the long coat, easing the edges aside to at least allow cooler air to reach him.  "Help is coming.  Hang in there."  It was hard not to add a scathing commentary on his behaviour and recklessness.  John knew that there would be a better time for that, and he certainly, and Mycroft probably, would speak to him about it.  Warn him, again.

The dispatcher had basic first aid steps that she was required to relate, and John listened with only half an ear, taking note of Sherlock's red-rimmed eyes and flushed cheeks and neck.  The pulse under his fingers thrummed away steadily, hammering too fast, myocardial oxygen demand entirely too high, the muscle screaming with inadequate oxygen supply, demanding more supply, causing more pain and depriving more and more cells of tissue perfusion.  It was a terrible cycle that, in the attempt to fix, actually made things worse - more oxygen used, less available, more demanded, faster, faster, _faster._  The penumbra of decreased perfusion would both enlarge and worsen as cellular death accelerated.

When the siren grew louder, closer, and then was finally visible at the end of the alley, John interrupted the dispatcher's spiel.  "The police're here.  Hanging up now, ta."  He didn't wait for permission.

The officer was one John didn't recognise, and approached with much less urgency than John felt was warranted.  "First aid kit," John called out, frustrated, halting him, and added, "And the AED."

"I'll be fine," Sherlock whispered, breathless, from the kerb.  "Take me home."

"Not a bloody chance in hell."

"Home."

"Piss off."

"Mary needs..."

"Mary is fine.  Not due for a couple weeks.  And unlike you, _I_  have a working mobile."  John watched the officer rummaging in the boot, wanted to smack him for his perceived lassitude, and to Sherlock added, "Plenty of time to save your sorry arse."  He did not add an impatient barb about the slowness of the patrolman.

The officer arrived back with quick steps, handed John the requested items.  John flung the lid off the kit, located the aspirin.  With his hand no longer on Sherlock's pulse, he paid a bit more attention to the man seated on the ground, watching to make sure he had signs of circulation and was still alert, awake, and breathing.  Thankfully, his colour and consciousness were not decompensating.  He slit the medication package open, took out four low strength aspirin, held them out to Sherlock.  The defiant stare was one John had grown well accustomed to over the years.  He was unfazed.

"Swear to god, open your mouth.  Chew these."

"I think not."  He took a deeper breath a few times, protested again, "Not chewable."  Had there been less of an emergency, John would have found humour that even in dire straights, Sherlock could still find energy to bloody argue.

"Shut up, Sherlock, and chew these damn aspirin."  He cocked both an eyebrow and his head, and would have cocked a fist in his direction except that Sherlock did then open his mouth.  "Chew slowly."

In spite of the pain, the respiratory distress, and the severity of the setting, he managed to squawk out a sound of horrible distaste.  "God-awful," he finally said through gritted teeth, his mouth still working over the pills.

"Don't care," he uttered quietly back at him.  To the officer, John queried, "The ambulance is...?"

"Minutes.  It's a few blocks out."  The officer pulled out a pad.  "Be here soon.  Until then..."  The biro clicked.  "Name?"

###

Later, Sherlock again gritted his teeth as the nurse came back in, wordlessly, the challenge and request that didn't need to actually be spoken.  "No change," he said, holding out the wrist sporting the radial artery band.  "God, how about I let you know if there's a problem?  This is a horribly inefficient waste of everyone's time and energy."

Mycroft spoke then from the corner chair, where he hadn't even looked up from the mobile device that was holding his attention.  "Ignore him," he said to the room at large.  "More people should do exactly that."  His tone was bored and casual.  Had it not been likely to make Sherlock even more irritable, John could have chuckled.

There was more huffing from the patient in the bed as the nurse added some volume to the infusion pump, eyeballed the monitor and vital signs, turned back to Sherlock.  "Need this yet?"  Sherlock looked up at her as she held out a urine bottle.  "You recall they want a sample for the lab."

"God no."

"Doctor's orders," she told him.  "Chest pain?  Trouble breathing?  Nausea?" she asked him, not unkindly, pausing after each question to confirm that he was shaking his head no.  She pointed at the bottle again, "Well, don't forget," she smiled placatingly at the three of them, and John sighed.

No sooner had the nurse walked out of the room, Sherlock removed the oxygen cannula from his nose, flung it onto the floor before John could lunge for it.

"Sherlock," John grumbled quietly.

"My saturations are fine."

"It's more about supply and demand."  He spoke snappily, but tried to keep further irritation out of his voice.  "Minimising free radical mitigated damage."

"I heard them say 94% or better is perfectly acceptable."  He looked unhappily from his brother to John.  "And is my mobile recharged yet?  I want it."

"You know, Sherlock," Mycroft began slowly, his patience obviously wearing thin, "that toxicology screen they want is going to be performed one way or the other.  If you are going to be stubborn about it, I'm sure your attending physician would certainly order a catheterisation as a means to obtain it."

From the bed, he turned a dissatisfied glare to Mycroft, gifting him with a cynically delivered " _Piss_ off," then over at John, who deliberately did not engage in the discussion.  "We already know what's going to be on it, I keep a bloody _list_."  John wasn't sure where the truth lay, but knew the berk was not above bluffing.

Mycroft stood then, clearing his throat subtly.  Approaching the bedside, he shrugged into his coat, peering down his nose intentionally at his brother.  "Do try to behave, will you, for a change?"

"I'll have them call you when I've signed myself out against medical advice."

"I'll know it before they call me.  Surely you haven't deleted awareness of my connections."  There was little else he said, simply a farewell, and as he turned to leave the room, he did allow John to see a facet of the expression he'd kept hidden from Sherlock - one of relief overlying a flicker of concern.  Angling his head slightly in acknowledgement and a relieved goodbye, he spoke.  "John."

Mycroft had barely crossed to the threshold of the doorway when Sherlock's hand moved to his IV site.  Mycroft's step halted immediately.  Without turning back around, Mycroft snarled, "If you pull that out, I will ensure hospital security is summoned to restrain you."

The snicker was unstoppable at that, before John could contain it, and John went suddenly quiet when Sherlock turned his death-glare pointedly in his direction.

###

 "Maybe this will help," the nurse set down a styrofoam cup of water, covered, straw bent, placing it where Sherlock could reach it without using his still somewhat restricted wrist, "Just take it easy, keep an eye on that, all right?  That comes off later, so far it looks good.  No further chest pain?"  Sherlock shook his head in the negative.  Once we have the sample, and the results," she said with a grin and shake of the head, "you do realise we'll stop bothering you about it."

Once they were alone, Sherlock leaned back, raked the fingers of the non-accessed arm through his curls, closed his eyes against the pillow.

"You're an absolute idiot, you know.  The cocaine was a spectacularly foolish thing to do."  He spoke quietly, glad the room was just the two of them finally.

"The case ---!"

"The case is your excuse.  It doesn't help you think clearly, no matter what you say.  You claim you need to..."  John realised the volume he was speaking at, moved to the door to close it, continued, "you need to go deeper.  There is no truth to that, no science.   _None._ "

Sherlock was quiet for the moment, staring at his long feet under the hospital linens.

"It's a rather pitiful rationalisation, wouldn't you agree?"

John could see Sherlock's jaws clench, his lips tighten.  He waited, quite a few minutes it seemed, but Sherlock's body language was considerably closed.

John wasn't done, didn't care that his words were not acknowledged.  "You didn't need it.  And today it could have killed ..."  John's voice trailed off, the cracking a particularly pained sound, one borne of emotion and caring.  And he swallowed then to calm himself, went on, much quieter, "... it could have killed you.  And then what would happen?"

Sharp eyes riveted in his direction, and Sherlock was suddenly spurred to pressured speech.  "You?  You have your family, a life, exactly what you wanted."  John could hear the edge of bitterness behind the words.  "Mycroft, pfffft, he could have a big 'I-told-you-so' party, invite his stuffy government to my wake.  Mrs. Hudson, the neighbours, all with much less hassles after."  He uttered a harsh bark of not-quite-laughter, "Lestrade on the other hand, would be understandably devast--"

"Shut up.  Just stop it."  John paused as the door cracked open again, the nurse came in holding a gauze bandage and some tape, set the supplies aside for later, picked up the empty syringe.  

In a surprising show of obedience, Sherlock held out his wrist.  He was quiet and not making terrible faces, and the nurse removed another three millilitres of air from the band.  They all watched the site for signs of haematoma, watched the plethysmography of the pulse oximeter for the normal waveform.  "Little bit later, and we can take it the rest of the way down, long as it's stable.  Sometimes the doctor will clear a patient for discharge later the same night, provided troponins are coming down," she said, referring to the blood chemistries that were still pending.  She waited until Sherlock looked up at her.  "Next blood draw's fairly soon, and the results should be available within an hour or so after."

Sherlock was paying attention, but did not respond to the nurse.  "Good news, that, if they discharge you yet tonight," John finally said.

The brief smile was sickeningly fake on Sherlock's face, just briefly.

Once they were alone again, John was reluctant to speak again, giving the man such a hassle after the day he'd already had.  "You don't mind if I stay, do you?"

The shrug was noncommittal. 

"You'll probably need an escort home, because of the sedation, so I could help.  Long as that's okay."

"I'm sure Mary would prefer you -"  His voice caught, and he changed tacks, "Mycroft can -"

John's hand raised, and Sherlock closed his mouth, so John could clear his throat before saying quietly, "You know, you are one of the brightest people I have ever met.  And trust me, I met a few in med school.  And served with some military geniuses too."  He eased back into the chair, the bustle in the hallway momentarily distracting them as the staff responded to another emergency out there.  John could hear the high alert monitor alarm, the overhead tone, the running of staff even through the closed door.  "But I have to tell you, for all your brilliance, you have missed some rather important things lately."

A steady blue gaze held fast then, between them both.  "I have had some difficulty, recently," Sherlock admitted, "figuring you out.  And Mary."  He ran his finger over the clear plastic device over his right arm at the base of his thumb.  "So, when the case came up, and proved initially challenging, well..."  He began to lift the edge of the band slightly, which would have defeated the purpose of the device, when John cleared his throat threateningly and he stopped.  "It should have proved distracting, anyway."

John waited, watching this dear friend struggle for the words that could come so hard for them both, on the things that really mattered.  He didn't prompt, didn't fret, simply let Sherlock put thoughts to sentences.

"The case was actually already solved, although Lestrade doesn't know that yet.  Seemed a decent enough excuse for ... escape, I suppose."

"Almost way more than escape, you realise."  John attempted to keep his voice light despite the topic.  "Almost permanent."

"I know.  I know it was."  The whisper as he admitted the truth almost seemed to cause him pain.  He wouldn't look at John, and there was the slightest nervous pursing of the lip as he sat there.  "But something's wrong, something is wrong with you, or with her, certainly wrong with us, or something that I just can't figure out, and I just can't see you clearly ..."  His speech was a bit more pressured, as his thoughts tumbled out, and John knew he was frustrated by his inability to understand something. 

John wondered at the timing of this particular conversation they were having, pressed on anyway.  "The baby isn't mine."

The head raised at that, surprised blue eyes wide and bright under the unruly curls, the laser-sharp gaze seeking and piercing John's.

John briefly considered making Sherlock work for the details, but opted to show mercy, so he explained with minimal details that the truth had come out, and both he and Mary knew it wasn't working.  He mentioned they'd worked out the plans for the delivery, the divorce eventually, that Mary would keep the apartment.  He ended it with the hope that, once Mary was recovered and back on her feet, that perhaps their friendship, the two of them, would resume.  That they would have more time than they've had since John's marriage.

"Would you perhaps consider that you might move back in to Baker Street?"  Sherlock seemed tentative, unsure.

"Eventually perhaps.  Only under certain conditions.  Certain strict conditions."

"Certain conditions," Sherlock echoed.

"I have non-negotiable conditions, yes."  John would elaborate, but not yet.

"Why?"  Sherlock seemed more on an even keel as he asked the question.  "Why would you even want to?"

"Because that's what I want.  Where I want to be."

For a few moments Sherlock was silent, eyes open but not really focused as he seemed deep in thought.  "I don't understand why on earth you would help Mary out like that?"  Sherlock leaned his head down, a puzzled frown over his features.  "It makes no sense."

John let his own smile answer, even if it was perhaps a bit poorly timed, "Because I'm one helluva nice guy.  And it's not a bad thing when your labour coach is a doctor, all things considered."  Unfortunately, Sherlock's mind was still whirling about trying to unwrap the layers of the situation, so he didn't smile much as the details settled into solidity in his mind.  John continued, "And because she could use a friend, and I offered.  It's the responsible thing to do, to help her out."

"She was unfaithful."

"Yes, that she was."  John could feel his own heart pound, then, and he knew that his time was now, time to declare himself, time to put his proverbial foot in to test the water.  "But one could argue that I was too.  At least in my mind.  I, uh, wanted ..."  He let the sentence dangle, knowing Sherlock might momentarily put all pieces together to make it whole.

"Wait, what?"  Sherlock hesitated.  "You wanted...? You wanted someone _else_?"  The monitor in the room sounded a low-priority alarm as his heart rate bounded up briefly.   _"Who!?"_

As John returned his steady eye contact, he could almost feel a blanket of security around him.  Sherlock obviously had no idea.  This was it, what he wanted, _who_ he wanted.  And if Sherlock wasn't interested, well, he would formulate another plan.  But having it out in the open felt like the next cog in the wheel, the next step in the journey, jumping into the water.  "Take a deep breath and calm yourself, your heart rate's high," he muttered, shaking his head a little as he let his eyes flick to the monitor as he silenced it.  "I wanted _you_ ," he said slowly and emphatically as Sherlock seemed to have a moment where understanding finally dawned.  A charged exchange of stillness in the room bounced between them as they both acknowledged what had now been laid out between them.  John would have no misunderstanding, so he quietly intoned, "I still do."

"But you kept saying you're not..."

"And you said you were married to your work."  John let his amusement show as he paused for effect.  "I'm bisexual, have known it for years.  As you mentioned, you have a bit of a blind spot when it comes to me."  

"Unfortunately, that is proving quite true."

So now that John had established the foundation, he had more to bring up, so he waited until Sherlock seemed ready to hear his next statement.  "You also have a blind spot when it comes to using drugs."

"No, I don't."

"Sherlock, where precisely are we right now?  And what exactly happened to you today?"

"They said my vessels were not blocked."

"No."

"My coronary arteries were mostly clean."

"Sherlock."

"Should have no lasting damage."

"No.  Try again."

There was a huff and a sigh and the clenching of the teeth.

"I'm not answering for you, and this is important."

"Apparently I've suffered cocaine-induced coronary artery spasm."

"It's especially bad with cocaine, you recall, because the hypertension, hyperthermia, and tachycardia exacerbate myocardial oxygen consumption.  It can kill you."  John leaned forward, touched the arm closest to him.  A minimal shudder of electricity seemed to pass between them, and Sherlock waited.  "It almost did."

"Today wasn't my day, then."  Breaking away from the tingling connection of John's arm on his, he took a drink, set the cup aside, and then they were both distracted by a shout from outside the room.

There was a lull in their discussion as noise from the medical emergency across the hall picked up in intensity.  The intercom sparkled overhead, requesting assistance.  They could hear the sounds of a cardiac arrest underway - stat pages, medications being ordered, chest compressions continuing, airway being managed.  There were several times, as they listened, someone called 'clear' and that the patient was apparently defibrillated unsuccessfully.  After a number of minutes had elapsed, it became obvious that the event was over, the code team was dismissed, the nurses clearing the area, equipment being put away, the physicians notifying family, the tearful sobbing at the bedside that became more muffled as a door must have been respectfully closed.

It was a sobering moment, and John stared hard at Sherlock as they locked eyes, not needing to mention that death sometimes wins, and that today wasn't a particularly lucky day for _everyone_.

"The more fortunate people may get a second chance."  Sherlock didn't disagree, and there was a small nod of his head, and John continued.  "Well, you're right.  Today wasn't your day.  But you need to think pretty hard about what I'm going to say next.  Because I haven't finished telling you the rest, also important."  Gathering his thoughts, his wits, and his courage, he paused, unrushed, wanting to be as clear and succinct as possible.  "I want you, and that may never change.  But I can't do it like this."  He gestured at the name band on Sherlock's wrist, then inclusively at the trappings of the hospital setting.  "I need you to promise, to give me your absolute word, that today was the last.  No more.  Because I'm going to fall hard for you, and I've wanted it for so long."  The emotion was evident in the hoarseness and deep plea in John's voice.  "I know we sometimes live on the edge of danger, and I wouldn't change that.  Not at all.  But on what can be chosen, well, that we do have some control over."

"All right."

John froze a bit in the chair, puzzled at the sudden agreement.  "That was quick."   _And_ , John thought, _a lie._

"Should be an indicator of how highly I esteem you, then.  Willing to such desperate conditions.  Such sacrifice on my part."

One side of John's mouth went up, then.  "You're full of shit.  You're agreeing, and absolutely none of me believes you outright.  Obviously, you have something else that you want.  An ulterior motive."

"Of course I do."  Sherlock's color was much better, John noticed, and the snarky tone indicated he clearly was feeling much improved.  "Take my IV out, get rid of this," he said gesturing at the device still on his wrist, "and give them a urine specimen."

Sherlock's insertion of humour into a situation was not uncommon, and certainly defused the seriousness of the topic at hand.  John laughed, leaned back again in the chair.  "No, no, and no."  John rested his shoulders and head against the tall backed chair.  The weight he'd been carrying had at least shifted some, and there was a relief, if not already here, at least on a near horizon.  At least he'd been able to voice his intentions.  "Not on your life."

Sherlock then eased his head back, closed his eyes there against the pillow, his body still against the hospital linens.  He had to be exhausted, John knew, and would probably have a crash at some point.  His chest rising with slow and relaxed movements, Sherlock actually looked so peaceful that John wondered how long it would take him to fall asleep.  With solemn eyes, John took those moments to watch him, to savour the respite, to watch the monitor, take a few grateful deep breaths himself and he had just let his own mind wander when Sherlock's voice interrupted him.  " _John_."

There was enough concern in Sherlock's speech that John wondered if he was having pain.  He did the quick, physician once-over from head to toe.  Color good, breathing fine, eyes bright, a bit of an anxious set to his mouth.  No nasal flaring, chest moving without being laboured.  His eyes cut to the monitor.  Blood pressure had just cycled, normal if a little low - expected with the intra-procedural meds he'd received.  Heart rate 90s and climbing now, but ST segments iso-electric.  He took in the nearly empty IV bag, the cath site, nothing oozing, bleeding, or that otherwise should cause concern, and Sherlock shifted in the bed with restless activity.  The monitor alarmed then, 120, and he snapped his attention to Sherlock's eyes.

"What is it?  Chest pain again?" John asked, placing his hand over Sherlock's arm to assess for skin temperature (warm) and diaphoresis (dry).  There was a simple moment of epiphany, and John chuckled, turned back to the table to reach something.  He handed Sherlock the urine bottle.  "Oh for gods sake, _here_.  You need to ... _fill_ this then."

A crimson stain began at Sherlock's neck, crawled to his ears and cheeks.  "I don't think I can laying in bed."  The distress was apparent, and John made a judgment call, lowered a siderail, let Sherlock swing his feet over.  The radial artery band clanked against the urinal, and Sherlock's movements were quick and approaching frantic as he tried to manouever the monitor cable, his IV, free himself from the linens, and aim the urinal with the slight handicap of the gadget that had been applied over his dominant arm.

In a stage whisper, John said, _"Oh for gods sake_ ," as Sherlock tried to shrug off John's hand, and he steadied him by the elbow.  "I'll help."

"God, no audience, either."

"Don't be such a baby."

The comment drew Sherlock up short as he managed to get the bottle into position, with John helping hold the patient gown out of his way.  "I bloodied Mycroft's nose for saying that to me once."

"You'll have to catch me first, and I'm fairly confident I can outrun you right now," John retorted.  "Just _go_ , will you?"

"Look away!" Sherlock demanded hotly.

Despite the fact that John couldn't actually see anything behind long arms, gadgets, and linens, he turned his head anyway.  "Mind over matter, Sherlock.  Get busy."

His whisper was urgent, "I can't."  This was said with more than a touch of embarrassment and a smattering of distress.

"For gods sake, certainly the most clever brain in all of Europe can..."  and John immediately stopped speaking as the sound of success began, quietly emphatic and then streaming loud in the small room.  The monitor pinged again, and John stretched an arm over behind Sherlock to suspend it, the activity and the stress of the day certainly playing a part in the elevated heart rate.  Relief was, fortunately, imminent on all counts.

There was a quick rap on the glass door as it opened, and a nurse responding to the heart rate alarm bustled in, "Things okay in here?"  Abruptly assessing the situation, she stopped but did not retreat, and whisked the curtain closed behind her.  "Oh.  Good.  We needed a donation from you."  Sherlock coloured, John noted, as he let the patient gown fall again and slid the now full bottle off to the side.  Donning gloves, the nurse reached to take it from him, and he almost apologetically handed it over.  "Appreciate it," she said again, gesturing back to the bed and John managed lines as Sherlock sat back down.  A half minute later, his heart rate had slowed drastically, back to normal, and she pulled off the sample, discarded the rest.  "I'll send this off, then," finding the scanner to appropriately print and then label the specimen.  She checked Sherlock's vital signs and puncture site again.  "A half hour or so, then bloodwork and we'll get that off your wrist."

"Then home."

She looked suddenly uncomfortable.  "We'll see."

Both John and Sherlock's heads turned in sync at the non-committal words.  John was the one who spoke first, "What?"

"Let's get the results of this first, and the next troponin," she said, "then we'll talk."

"Is there a change of plans in the works?"  Still John was the one finding words, and he could almost feel the stress emanating in waves off of Sherlock without looking at him.

"Case management called the unit a few minutes back, we were ..." she gestured out toward the hallway "... a bit busy at the time.  Wanted to make sure you didn't leave without her stopping up to see you first."  It was clear from her forced casual demeanor that the something unexpected had been discussed, broached.

When they were alone again, Sherlock closed his eyes, leaned his head back.  "Mycroft, obviously."

"Do you think it wise to consider it this time?"  John ventured, tentative, afraid too much would push him in the complete opposite direction.

"Rehab is a pointless waste of time."  The angry edge was back to his voice, the words almost snorted.  "I know exactly what I'm doing.  Full control."

"You don't know when to stop."  From the chair next to the bed, John slid his hand out to hold Sherlock's, let his fingers twine together with the cooler, annoyed ones in the bed.  "I'm afraid one day," and he waited until Sherlock was looking back at him so he could surmise the sincerity and the concern, "you'll fly too close to the sun, melt off those wings of yours."

"John.  I am not Icarus, and I know what I'm doing."  

"Right.  This was exactly what you were hoping for today, yeah?"

"Nothing happened.  Nothing's going to happen."  John let his expression of skepticism speak loudly in the room.  There was a closed off air about Sherlock indicating he'd obviously already made his decision, and he further declared, "And I will not do rehab."

John could feel the thickening of his throat, the swell of emotion that was reminding him that there was no way he could afford to care for, maybe even love this man the way he wanted, the way things were.  Not yet, like this.  Losing him, again, if he didn't change his ways, well... John knew he would never survive it a second time.  Lifting his hand still holding Sherlock's, he brought their collective fingers to his lips, boldly kissed one of Sherlock's knuckles then let his cheek rest briefly against the back of Sherlock's hand.

It tingled pleasantly, and John wanted more.  Much, _much more_.

"Then this is my stop."  He could hear the gruffness of his emotional-laden voice.  "God, I don't want to," he breathed, " _but I just can't._  When you're committed to being clean, completely, and ready -"  Resolutely, before the moistness in his eyes threatened to condense and overflow, he let Sherlock's hand go.  "You know how to reach me."  The mobile that had been charging there on the counter of Sherlock's room, was nearly full, and John set it close at hand.

Sherlock watched John place the chair he'd occupied back into the corner of the room where it had been, moving things back to normal as if John had never been there keeping vigil.  On unfaltering feet, he crossed to the door, eyes heavy and mouth dry.  John's fingers touched the handle, stilled.

The man at the door stopped to look back at the man in the bed.  "I'll ring Mycroft to tell him -- to let him know that I, uh," and he hesitated, wondering exactly what he would say.  "I would imagine he'll be in touch..."  

Sherlock lay in the bed, his eyes only lingering on John's face a short while until he looked away.  What John wanted most of all at that moment, for Sherlock to halt his exit and promise to clean up his act, but he knew it was unlikely to happen.

It didn't.  Being right is a bitch, John smirked to himself as he left the building.  The text he'd composed and sent to Mycroft was short:   **All yours.  Good luck to you both.  Let me know?**

John arrived back home to a quiet, deserted flat.  Of course, Mary was out, and John had no inclination to make contact yet.  With heavy heart and eyelids, he settled, fatigued, onto the couch under a blanket.  Mary found him there when she returned from shopping.  Without mentioning anything about it, she set his tea next to him with a small smile.

When he checked, there was a text message waiting on his phone from Mycroft:   **He runs toward danger while you run away.  Do you have his best interests at heart, or merely your own?**

John composed a reply, sent it quickly.   **Perhaps both, but we also know who and what motivates him.**

**The wisdom of that remains to be seen, Dr. Watson.**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chewing aspirin is definitely a thing, although reportedly the taste is quite terrible, as Sherlock discovered. Please don't consider this a recommendation to do this, however, outside of medical or EMS direction. Cocaine induced coronary artery spasm is also a problem, and can lead to lethal arrhythmia, myocardial infarction, or death.
> 
> Considering what John has been through - from Afghanistan to the sidewalk outside Barts to Mary's betrayal - I don't particularly blame him for taking a hard stance with Sherlock.
> 
> Thanks for reading! Next chapter is in final edits, coming up soon!


	2. Crossing the Lines

John didn't really expect to hear from Sherlock, but each time his mobile buzzed, he could feel the anticipation as if maybe, perhaps, it just might one day be him. Mycroft had been his typical stoic self, unreadable, guarded. He had not been surprised to hear from John as he left the hospital that day, and the disapproval John heard in his voice might only have been John's own projected disappointment. There had been no further news, and days strung together as time passed, the angst lessened, and John found that he was starting to sigh just a little less.  Sherlock, and what Sherlock may or may not have been doing, was never too far from John's thoughts, however.

The sighing was about to get worse again, however. Mary had a surprise announcement one evening when John returned from work, something that John should have been more prepared for but wasn't. "John, I -" she began, awkwardly. Her hands wrung together nervously, and he began to realise the seriousness of whatever was on her mind when she couldn't look at him directly. "It was nice of you to offer, as my companion for delivery, truly -" She had a few other false starts until John got a sense for what must have transpired. "But I don't think I'll -"

John put together what she was _not_ saying. "He's back in the picture, then?"

The smile was not particularly triumphant, but hopeful, on Mary's face. Her hands came round her belly, and John could tell she was trying to minimise hurting his feelings. "Yes, and, given the circumstance..." she looked even more uncomfortable, then.

"Of course. He should be with you." While John could have felt excluded, again, from the hands he kept getting dealt, he chose to focus on the relief instead, which was real. "I'm glad for you, if that's what you want."

"It is." She was trying so hard, he could see, to spare him. "Thank you."

Clearing his throat, John glanced around. "I'll, uh, see to getting out right away." He picture Baker Street then, wholly yearning for days past, and wondered if Harry was sober enough to even answer the phone, or if Stamford might have a spot for him for a few nights.

Her expression was sweetly approving, and her smile one of the shy variety. "That'd be fabulous, if you don't mind."

A few moments later, she was in the bedroom behind a closed door, and he could hear only vague snippets of her on the phone, but he could tell she was animated, clearly happy, clearly pleased. He sighed, texted Mike Stamford, and, as expected, Mike was agreeable to let him crash there for a few nights. John packed a bag, said goodbye to Mary which included a kiss at the temple and an awareness of the intrusion of more than just her belly pressing against him. It was also, it seemed, a life no longer any of his business as they hugged one final time as roommates. The goodbye was as sadly empty as their relationship and a reminder of how much he'd said goodbye to over the past days. His mobile was still silent from the person he'd wanted to hear from most. An errant thought of self-pity had him wondering if he was truly needed anywhere.  Perhaps, he thought madly, he'd work a bit extra - he was certainly needed by patients if no one else.

He wished Mary the best, said he'd work on a more permanent place, and come 'round later for the rest of his things.  The haste with which he'd closed the door on Mary and at Mary's flat, as he considered it, may have explained the relief he was feeling - one less thing in the way, should there be developments of any kind with Sherlock.

Later that evening, in the cluttered spare bedroom at Mike's, he lay brightly awake in the mostly dark room. The glow from his mobile, had anyone been there to witness it, simply illuminated the sad, lonely set of his eyes. Before he could talk himself out of it, he composed and sent a text to Sherlock.

**Hope things are going well and that you're on the mend now. I'd like to meet you for coffee sometime, maybe catch up?**

He hit send, then had a momentary panic and a rising swirl of text regret, wished it unsent.

When the text did actually come bouncing back with a red exclamation point as undeliverable, he was also disappointed that he got his wish.

###

"I'll go over," John said as the receptionist hung up the phone and delivered the message. The other physician on at the surgery already had his coat on and obviously was done for the day in more ways than just that. "I saw him here last week." The patient of their practice was giving the A&E physician a hard time, and a consultation had been requested. John could hear the underlying agenda - come calm this patient down and convince him to stay.

"He is a bit high strung, yeah." The notifying clerk had apparently used the phrase 'he was pitching a fit' and John could easily picture it.

The visit in the A&E was purely social, and it only took John a few minutes with the patient to convince him to stay and cooperate. John took a deep breath as he shrugged into his coat, shouldered his bag, and decided to grab coffee from the cafeteria. He'd just approached the register when a familiar voice from behind him stopped him cold in his tracks, and a faint sheen of perspiration broke out across his chest.

"You realise coffee this late will keep you awake all night."

He forced a light response. "Not this tired, it won't." Sherlock was standing just behind him, looking as composed as ever, hair trimmed, eyes bright, collar up of course. "Grande, milk," he advised the cashier, who scanned his badge as payment, handed him the steaming beverage.

"Are you here with Mary?" Sherlock asked, obviously fishing. John didn't know if Mary had delivered or not, but when he turned around, his face obviously gave away almost everything. And then as he shook his head sadly, Sherlock probably figured out all the rest and pounced on the details. "Oooooh. You've obviously been replaced, she's with _him_ , then. Well, good riddance. The fact that you had--"

"Sherlock," John began, attempting to convey a caution to speak carefully, not wanting his situation blabbed all over the hospital.

He lowered his voice, but continued, "It was a ridiculous gesture that you were going to accomp--"

 _"Stop it,"_ John said, tugging at his sleeve to either shut him up or lead him from those in the coffee shoppe. "Please." He asked if Sherlock had a few minutes to join him, and when he nodded, John crossed the room to an out of the way table.

They eased into seats, opposing benches. One of Sherlock's perceptive eyes narrowed. "You're not even living with her anymore. You haven't been." He sat back while John sipped the coffee, noting the irony of his undelivered text message suggesting coffee. Since when, he mused, did catching up with Sherlock involve pleasant conversation? An arm slid across the back of the bench, Sherlock's coat gapping open to show a fitted dress shirt, buttonholes slightly tugged, and he looked at John full on with something of a smirk. "Where are you staying?"

John sipped the coffee, mind whirling, trying to decide if he was in peril staying where he was, directly in front of the man who could - _sometimes_ \- see entirely too much.

"Harry's?"

Smiling, John shook his head in the negative. "Bit of a bad stretch." Truth was, Harry probably barely remembered answering the phone when John had rang her. He'd hung up quickly. "Stamford's for a few days." John was on a waiting list for a small bedsit, again, but didn't share that. The association, years ago, was poignant.

"So did Mary have the baby?"

He shrugged, "No clue." Considering the date, he added, "Probably by now, I would guess." It had been a few weeks, nearly a month, since he and Sherlock'd been together a few floors above them after Sherlock's emergent, diagnostic cath, in this very hospital. "You're doing well, then?"

"No chest pains or procedural complications, if that's what you're referring to."

John pushed the coffee back, studying the man across from him. "Not entirely." Not that he'd ever shown too many tells of substance abuse, but John thought he seemed quite steady and clear. Wishful thinking, perhaps. "Partially, I suppose."

"You'll be pleased to know that my _performance anxiety_ surrounding routine bodily functions has resolved completely."

"Not exactly what I meant, either, that."

"Mycroft was insufferable. More than usual. He called me an idiot in seven languages, and let me tell you, he spits and splutters when he speaks some of the Slavic tongues." John put the bag aside completely, took off his jacket, thought briefly how much he'd missed Sherlock's wit and his acerbic barbs when relating to others. _God he missed what they used to have_.  He considered that he could drag out the coffee simply to stay there a good long time. "In exchange for my agreeing to some outside assistance," and he sneered the word distastefully, "I avoided a prolonged inpatient stay. The requisite days were hellacious-ly long enough as it was."

"Of course you insisted on your own terms." John spoke quickly, without immediately seeing the parallel, but Sherlock's expression made him pause.

An eyebrow raised again, but in irritation over amusement. Hesitating for ultimate effect, he drilled his eyes and his tone into John. "You're one to talk."

John recalled the rather black-and-white condition he'd given to Sherlock at his bedside. Clean up or I'm not doing this with you. "True." One side of his mouth curled up. "I don't regret it, and it was the right thing for me to insist on at the time."

"I went to a day programme. And I didn't do it for you, although I could primarily credit you for getting me to agree to being there. Certainly my sibling would have taken me unwillingly, somehow, had I resisted any longer."

"So it went well?" John felt Sherlock's ankle stretch out under the table to rest lightly against his own. He ignored it. "Was it helpful?"

"Not particularly. Any choices I make are not subject to outside influence."

"That's bloody bullshit and you know it." John didn't even hesitate, and then named a few examples of those who have wielded influence over the man - CAM, Moriarty, Mary, and Mrs. Hudson were good and truthful places to start. "You even turn up your collar and check your hat placement because you care what _strangers_ think."

John could see the muscles in Sherlock's jaw clench and fought not to smile as a result. An edge to his voice, then, Sherlock admitted, "Helpful, then, only to the point that it was necessary to get Mycroft off my case." His eyes held John's again, steadily, as if challenging.

"That's it then, just Mycroft." At that moment, then, John knew he was being played, poked, prodded, and tested. "Good to know where I stand, apparently."

"Good form," he said with a small smile, "I expected you to take that bait. I remember every word you said, you know. Every word."

"I still mean what I said. I can't commit to something" and when Sherlock's brow raised again at the word, John amended, "someone, with that much risk, known risk, voluntary risk. Call it selfishness, self-protective behaviours, I don't care." John could feel his heart pound at the memory of what the early days after the fall were like. "I can't lose you again."  When Sherlock didn't respond directly to that, John recalled Mycroft's calling his focus into question.  "And," he added, "I did it for your best interest, too."

"There are no guarantees."

"Stupidity is dangerous." John could feel the anger rising inside at Sherlock's casual disregard for his lifestyle. "By not taking a stance, you leave that doorway wide open. It's like you've practically given yourself... _permission_ to fail again. Willingly."

"I've been clean since that day."

"Bully for you."

"You're waiting for me to say it, aren't you?"

"Of course I am."

"I don't want to lie to you, John. I won't lie to you."

"You would if it suited you."  John couldn't help the smirk he knew was brewing.  "Or benefited you."

There was a serious moment, then, and John could feel the rawness of Sherlock letting down his personae, his front, his mask. "Not to you. Not about this, anyway," and they shared a small smile at the difficulty he found in being honest.

There was a faint movement of Sherlock's bony ankle against John's, and a peculiar sensation began in John's chest. It was something between longing and an awareness that he was in a vulnerable position - from more than one angle when it came to the man opposite, who still wielded such power over him. John spoke, "I see you're not offering false assurances or promises, then.  I do actually appreciate that." Sherlock's shoulders rose as he inhaled deeply, clearly weighing John's words. "You're not ready."

"Apparently not." While John toyed with his beverage again, the wind shifted at the table and the solemn air lifted along with the corners of Sherlock's mouth in a sweet smile. "I thought about calling to make an appointment with you, at the surgery, under a fake name." Colouring slightly at the admission, he flashed his one-sided grin at John. "I wanted to see you, felt awkward calling out of the blue."

"Right, because showing up for a fake injury or contrived illness wouldn't have been uncomfortable at all."

"I never did, obviously."  They exchanged a look.  "And the injury would certainly have been real or the disease quite properly acquired, had I chosen to pursue that."

"Right, of course it would have.  That's something quite in character.  You would have chosen, what, some rare tropical disease?"

"I would have given you enough hints that diagnosis would have only taken you a short time."

"Don't do that, just... don't."  John could only imagine the NHS being notified of a new outbreak of something reportable, dangerous, and completely within Sherlock's capability of carrying out.  Changing tacks, he said, "You can just call me if you want. Did you get a new mobile number? I texted..."

"No, but Mycroft confiscated it of course while I was ... _inpatient_ , and wiped it clean, reformatted it. Like that will stop me from unsavoury associations or transactions."

"Of course it wouldn't, but I would have done the same. Whatever might make you hesitate before acting on the urge."

"My mind doesn't work that way."

"Are you planning on staying clean?" John regretted the question as soon as he'd asked it, like he needed to put words to his pain, to get confirmation of the severity of his insecurities.

"So far. For the moment, anyway." When John seemed to take that in with a slight nod of his head, Sherlock continued. "I meet with a group of idiots twice a week now - that's what I'm even doing here tonight - in the conference room just down the hall. A pathetic waste of my time, of course, but experts involved with my programme seem to require it. Oh, and you'll be pleased that the counselor they linked me up with apparently has the right to do random urine drug tests for up to twelve months. I'm relatively certain that Mycroft had something to do with that, some addition of a ridiculous boring rule, something to make him feel superior and in charge."

"You can do it." John knew the threat of random testing grated on him. "With or without the possibility of discovery."

"Is your bravado self-serving? You want me to because it's good for me? or because it benefits you?" He was a bit riled up then, and leaned closer even as he pulled his foot away. "I'm a user, John, not an addict. And you of all people should know how my mind works, what quiets it, what can happen when I'm bored. My intentions might be one thing, but reality is quite often another thing entirely."

John was just about to open his mouth, offer words of explanation or support when Sherlock held up a finger to silence him.

"You said to me that you were going to fall hard. Remember?" And of course John did, telling Sherlock that he was going to _fall hard for him_ , and nodded. "I fell hard once. And you know flat out I'm talking metaphorically as well as..." His hand gesture was rather obvious, falling from over the table to rest palm up. The rooftop was implied, his hand still and pale as it had been that day when John searched futilely for a pulse. John stared at it, willing away the nauseous sensation that even now, this long afterward, was right there afflicting him. "Didn't quite work out they way I was hoping." Anger out of proportion to their conversation was brewing and bubbling and overflowing. "When I came back, what - _who_ \- I thought was going to be waiting for me, _was not_."

A burst of activity, the detonation of human fireworks, the flash of coat, a click of leather shoe, and John was unsettled and alone again, with coffee that now tasted suddenly, acridly, bitter.

###

 **Dr. Watson. Good evening**. The text arrived late one night, and was signed Mycroft _Holmes_. As if there could be more than one Mycroft.

**What do you want?**

**I want assurance you are currently paying attention.**

Great, John considered. Word games with Mycroft was apparently how John could pass the time. **Of course.**

**He is alone.**

What followed was an ellipsis and then a photo that came in grainy, then pixels sharpened and clarified to become an image of Sherlock walking at night from the side, long coat, shiny shoes catching the streetlight, curls windblown in the night breeze. Another came in just after, one from the front this time. Both angles depicted him simply him walking by himself, and was time-stamped late the previous evening.

Mycroft had said it - _Alone_. John added, Solitary. Isolated. Possibly bored. Dangerous. John's mind tried to embody with words the image, to capture the pictures' essence, unable to stop staring at it there in his hand.  At risk.

Vulnerable, then. John felt the same longing for friendship and companionship that he'd been so acutely aware of since this all fell apart, since leaving Mary to her devices as requested, moving out, alone in London yet again. Since slowly clipping his closer inner circle to just about non-existent. Since severing ties with Sherlock.

There was another buzz on his mobile, and another photo began to come in. He steeled himself to see another photo of his solitary former flatmate, perhaps him striking a deal in some shady part of town, or shooting up, or even, his mind went there - something worse. In someone else's arms, or something even more hurtful, smiling and happy in those imagined arms. He braced himself to not be devastated by this attempt of Mycroft's to play with John's compassion, trigger an emotional response, motivate him to make contact, strike up a friendship again. What he got instead was unexpected, and in some way, almost sadder.

It was a photo of himself, also taken yesterday as he walked home from the tube, mostly from a profile shot, and he watched poignantly as the image loaded. The snicker came unbidden, as he noticed that his own collar had been turned up against the chill. He was just as alone, the depth of apathy he could recognise on his own features, even, and the expression on his face was just ... empty. Meaningless.

Forcing down the queasiness, he formulated and sent a quick text. **Is he all right?**

 **What do you think? Does he _look_ all right?**  Mycroft snapped back a reply, and, in his head, John could practically hear Mycroft speaking it with disdain. **And further, are you, John?**

John flipped back to the photo of Sherlock, could see the lack of emotion on his face, the stoicism. While zooming in on the expression, another text interrupted.

**Contrary to his previous statements, you should be aware that alone does not necessarily protect him.**

John powered off the phone, shut his eyes there in Mike's spare bedroom, and did not sleep.

###

He got additional clarity the following day as a result of a patient encounter, where he was asked to prescribe short term anxiety medication for a woman. Her daughter suffered repeated drug relapses that had led to terrible unfolding events - the parents had kicked out the daughter, who ended up alone, high, desperate; her body had just been found. He attended to the request promptly, listened empathetically to the woman, choking on her own tears, explain that she never meant to _abandon_ her daughter, never thought something like this would have transpired. He apologised to her for her terrible loss, flagging the chart to follow up by phone in a few days. Her impassioned words, _Dr. Watson, please tell me I didn't set her up for this_ , rung and echoed in his ear.

It struck him, however, about the parallels between the woman and her daughter, and with himself and Sherlock. He wondered if he was abandoning someone who was prone to danger or who needed connection with someone who still cared. It was too late for the daughter, to keep her from flying too close to the sun, to avoid tragedy. Perhaps Sherlock just needed someone to join ranks with him rather than draw that hard line in the sand and insist he promise never to cross it.

Between patients that afternoon, John began to formulate a plan. So far, his Icarus was listening, but in case he decided to do otherwise and ignore sound advice, what he actually needed might just be a companion who, if keeping him from flying was not possible, might keep him safe mid-flight, if necessary.

###

He had overstayed his welcome at Mike's, evidenced by the increasing bits of criticism, snippiness, the occasional question as to how long he was planning on staying, and one night, the actual request that he find alternate arrangements to accommodate for Mike's date. Fortunately, John had keys to the surgery, which had a cot and shower. It was better, he knew, than paying for a hotel, which he couldn't really afford, or spending the night on the street, where Sherlock's homeless network would certainly reveal his location and circumstance.

His mobile buzzed early that next morning as he stashed his change of clothing behind his office door. It was a short and elusive message from Mycroft:

**You are aware your name remains on the Baker Street lease. Half rent = half occupancy.**

Initially, he was annoyed that Mycroft was still keeping tabs on him, for knowing his circumstance. The annoyance dissipated when he made a discovery later that morning. A courier had left a sealed envelope at the desk, his name penned across the front, money tucked inside.  The amount enclosed was exactly his half of one month's rent.

###

Sherlock arrived home one afternoon after a rather unsatisfying case related errand, and paused at Mrs. Hudson's open door. He heard, as John had fully intended, that he was visiting with her, and Sherlock took a few steps onto the room to have both John and Mrs. Hudson greet him.

A few moments of casual conversation involving tea, biscuits, and the weather finally gave way to John standing up.

To Mrs. Hudson, he said, "Well, thanks for passing the time with me," and he reached for one of two suitcases there by the door. To Sherlock he informed, "Thought I'd at least wait until you got home before moving my bags back in."

" _What_?" He snapped the word smartly, body language defensive and confused. "I never agreed to this."

"Apparently you don't have to agree to it." John angled his head toward the table, where a stack of bills sat, clipped and labeled for Mrs. Hudson. "My name is still on the lease, and that half of the rent for the month entitles me to occupancy." Not belabouring the point particularly in front of their landlady, John pulled his own key from his pocket with his free hand.

John had barely had a moment to appreciate the sounds and smells and sights of 221B when disapproval arrived behind him through the door he'd left open. "Set them down, John, but don't get too comfortable." Sherlock was pointing at his bags, then hung up his Belstaff almost territorially on the hooks. "What are you doing?"

"I need a place to stay."

"You said --"

John interrupted. "I know what I said. I also know that Mike's isn't working out anymore and there were no vacancies convenient to work, waiting lists all over town are long and prohibitive. And technically, this is still half mine."

"That's got very little to do with why you're here." Sherlock looked mildly concerned, seemingly anxious to be rid of him. "And I'm not sure I want you here at all."

Watching closely, John slid out of his jacket while Sherlock glared back. "Tone down the hostility, all right?" He set the coat down across the top of his back. "Can I explain?" There was no response, verbally or even visible in Sherlock's expression. "If you still want me to leave when I'm done, I'll rethink my plans."

"I'll listen in exchange for tea." He sat, folded his arms in front of him, waited stonily.

While most of John wanted to put up at least token resistance, or at least mention the half rent already paid to Mrs. Hudson, he considered the wisdom of complying and moved to the kitchen, flipped on the electric kettle. His years with Sherlock had done nothing if not educate him on the wisdom of choosing his battles carefully. He was not about to die on the hill over a cup of tea.

Once they both had a steaming mug in reach, he cleared his throat nervously, and began. He knew he would, out of necessity, need to come directly to the point or risk being stubbornly ignored from the get-go. "I realise now that it was unfair of me to demand something of you and then withdraw any semblance of friendship or assistance. I shouldn't have judged you like that, definitely not because of what you do." Glancing up, he wanted to make sure Sherlock was still paying attention.  Summarily, he continued, "I'm sorry, I shouldn't have made my friendship contingent on you getting your act together and on your making a promise of something you weren't sure of. It wasn't supportive, and I'm sorry that I turned my back on you when what I should have done was to come alongside you and offer my help."  Best John could tell, Sherlock had not yet tuned him out, so he added, "And be there for you, as a friend."

Sherlock stared down at his hands, long fingers joined fingertip to fingertip, and seemed to be waiting. There was a guardedness to him, and John felt sorry for Sherlock continuing to expect grief, hassles, and non-support from him. "That's it?" he finally asked.

"You know how I feel about the rest of it. Seems unnecessary to repeat it," he shrugged as Sherlock looked up at him and then smiled as he offered, "unless you want m--"

"No."

John halted abruptly.  There was palpable irritation in the room, and Sherlock's tone was curt and intense.

"You've said your piece. Now _you're_ going to listen to _me_."

###

There was a rumble of low-rolling thunder, and the blasting sheet of rain being windblown and smacking against the exterior walls and roof, tinkling and rolling down the thick-paned glass. John had turned off his alarm, reveling in the knowledge that he didn't have to work, could do as little as he wanted there on Baker Street on this rainy, lazy morning.  Eventually there would be tea, the morning news, perhaps a crackling fire in the sitting room for atmosphere and warmth.  Rolling onto his back, he stretched out, his limbs heavy and sated after a restful night. The divorce had been final a few days ago, hastened along at Mary's request so she could post her own new and upcoming marriage banns to commence the thirty day countdown.  Their daughter, who they'd named Brianna, was doing well apparently last he'd heard. And the other day, he'd collected his things from Mike's, who gruffly had apologised for his moodiness but gratefully thanked him for getting out so quickly. At the moment, the overcast grayness of the daylight was all but lulling him back to sleep, nestled under the duvet.

He rolled onto his side then, savouring the warmth of the bedlinens, feeling the langour. In his direct line of vision, the pillow next to him was mostly obscured under riotous curls. The warmth was beyond the physical, he realised as he could see the steady rise and fall of Sherlock's chest as he lay there on his side facing away from John. Deciding that sleep was still a precious gift, the two of them finally together, he opted not to overtly awaken the man, choosing instead to tuck his toes under Sherlock's calf, just barely.

He remembered with clarity the first night he'd come back, laid it all on the line. He recalled both the brevity of the crisp words and the sinking feeling when Sherlock had risen from his chair in anger to approach him, a finger pointed harshly at his chest, and how he had snarled, "Don't do me any favours." John had held his ground, even when Sherlock had added through clenched teeth, "I have no need of your help. More," he'd groused, " _I don't want it_."

Now, Sherlock rolled onto his back, still mostly asleep. John let his body shift a little closer, letting an arm steal across Sherlock's trim but solid waist, eased his head onto the pillow somewhat over Sherlock's shoulder. He got comfortable and settled in, enjoying these moments of intimacy. Another lightning flash followed by a deep rumble of thunder sounded, the building almost rattling on its foundation with the strike somewhere nearby. An arm came from around behind John's back, drawing him closer. Barely awake, Sherlock turned his head to rest his chin against John's hairline.  A warm exhale, the snuggle of a muscled arm pulling him close, and John could feel his body relax.  His eyes closed as his mind wandered the journey from that night, his first after the return to Baker Street to now.  

They had come a long way, but they still had a considerable journey in front of them.

###

The tension in the flat, back then, after those first awkward nights of merely sharing the occasional living space, had gradually risen until one evening it exploded, over something involving a just-solved case and frustrating developments and incompetence and inappropriate placement of body parts in the kitchen, and experiments, and being out of bloody milk again, but later, John couldn't recall exactly what had started it, what that proverbial last straw had been. It had ended, however, with enough yelling that a concerned Mrs. Hudson arrived at the door to 221B just in time to see Sherlock's arm upraised with a very smashable coffee mug that he was threatening to hurl to the floor.  Of course, Mrs. Hudson was rather alarmed and upset. John had looked over at her, realised how out of hand they had both become.  The two-personed frustration had been projected onto anything and everything.

"Oi, I'm sorry, Mrs. Hudson. Bit of a ... domestic, here." He put his back to Sherlock, angry enough that he didn't even want to look at him, address him, or consider his presence in the room.  He was also disappointed in his own lack of control, in truth.  "Sorry we disturbed you. I was just heading out. Breath of fresh air and a brisk walk."

Sherlock huffed and hunched and sulked and made otherwise annoyed sounds from his chair that he'd flumped into, still holding the innocent and intact ceramic mug. The glare that was directed in John's direction was missed by neither John nor Mrs. Hudson.  John reached the coathook, grabbing his jacket in his hand.

In the past, John absolutely would have stomped off without a thought.  He would have walked off his anger, probably for hours until he had settled down, maybe had a pint, and then he would return home.  Frequently, he would have found that Sherlock had either gone out himself or was taking out his aggression on poor hapless appliances, an experiment, torturing his violin, or the internet at large.  Today, however, John was stopped cold as he stared at his hand still holding his coat.  Insight into his own patterns of problem-solving had just descended.

While punching something - or someone - or stomping off was what appealed to him, he was confronted by a conscience pricking at him. Conflict resolution would be best handled as adults, he knew, rather than either of their behaviours they'd grown accustomed to.  They each had used escapes, and John was now staring at his own head on, aware of ingrained behaviour - probably as second-nature as what Sherlock turned to in the past.

To Mrs. Hudson, he smiled, patted her arm in what he hoped was reassurance.  "We're okay.  I'll take care of things."

"I'm sure you will, dear," she said, although she didn't look especially convinced, and made no inclination toward walking away.

Even though Sherlock was not looking expressly at him, John knew he was attentive. "Please come with me?"

An angry scowl was all John got in response.

"Okay, then I'll stay."

"Oh for gods sake, John."  His tone was flat and furious.  "Go for your _bloody, cathartic_ walk."

John only shrugged, left his coat on the hook, proceeded to the kitchen ostensibly to both avoid close proximity to his aggravated flatmate and to straighten up.

"You don't need to stay here and ... monitor my every move."

John came to stand in the doorway.  "Is that what you think this is?"  Surprisingly, Mrs. Hudson was still hovering in the room, obviously distrustful of the lot of them.  Her wringing hands gave evidence of her distress.

"Of course.  You moved back in here to babysit."  His diction dripped vitriol.

"No, I didn't."   _Is that what he really thought?_

"John, go for a walk.  You're bothering Mrs. Hudson."  An eyebrow raised as Sherlock sat, and finally he turned steely eyes on John in an unpleasant and harshly critical assessment.  "Further, if you stay here, I promise on all that is holy I will descend upon the kitchen and smash everything within it that is breakable.  It is up to you."

"Please come with me, Sherlock." 

"No."

Mrs. Hudson's gaze was on Sherlock, but her eyes flicked to the kitchen in concern.  The seated man huffed in extreme belligerance, exuding anger from every pore.  He set his journal aside, and made to get up as if to enter the kitchen to carry out his threat.   _"John,"_ Mrs. Hudson murmured somewhat urgently.

He made a decision then, having been given no other choice, particularly with their not-housekeeper standing there prodding him.  For a moment, he leaned toward Sherlock.  His own angry visage hopefully conveyed the depth of his feelings as he seethed in a voice loud enough for them all, "You are being childishly unreasonable."

###

He would find out later that Mrs. Hudson had been gently hinting and then kindly direct and and finally demandingly insistent, telling Sherlock only one phrase repeatedly until he complied. "Go after him."

###

That night, John had passed benches, crossed a few bridges and walkways, avoided areas that were too dark, and finally ended up at an ancient, run-down, forgotten cemetery. Headstones were old, many eroded over time, some tilted or broken, and he paused there, hands resting lightly on the old stone boundary fence.

John was aware, at some point as he stood, that he was no longer alone. The hairs on the back of his neck bristled and he turned around abruptly to assess the presence behind him - attacker, random pedestrian, threat, or curious onlooker. A tall figure stepped up toward the stone wall, a familiar profile, and turned around to lean against it. No words were immediately offered, and John looked away again to stare straight ahead.

"I'm sorry," John'd said. "This isn't working."  The offer to find other living arrangements stuck in his throat, unspoken, and he tried to work up to forming the actual words when Sherlock touched his arm.

"Please come home." The plea was heartfelt and intense and completely without guile. "Please, " he'd said again.

John turned his head to look at him, then, and exhaled defeatedly.  The dim streetlight from down the road a-ways illuminated the dark curls, catching on the tall shoulders and line of Sherlock's coat.  Inwardly shaking his head at their predicament, he could feel his shoulders slump as he pondered Sherlock's desperation - following him, and the use of _two please's_.

"You're not moving out, are you?" Sherlock asked.

"Should I?"

"You've a lot of annoying traits, but being a quitter is not one of them."

"Does that somehow mean that you want me to stay?" John resisted the urge to turn to stare at him, choosing the dark landscape, gravestone outlines ahead of him as preferred focus points.

"I asked, didn't I?"

"I probably should make other arrangements, to salvage what's left of this friendship before it's too late."  Neither he nor Sherlock moved then, or spoke for long moments.  "But I don't want to, you know."

"What's stopping you?"

John's immediate answer - _you are_ \- that he left unsaid gave him cause for a short breathy chuckle.  "I'm going to answer that, but keep in mind that you asked for it."  There was a pause, a tacit agreement, and Sherlock simply waited while John sorted his words before speaking them.  "I think your frustration might be related to something else."  John did turn to look then, to see Sherlock's face in the glow of the evening.  "Something more than the case."

"So now _you're_ a relationship expert," he scoffed, touching John's wedding ring with a glancing brush of his finger before repocketing his hand.  John's laughter, thin and insincere, sounded harsh in the dim light.

"Sod off."  The shared cackle was brief.  "Yeah, I should probably remove that."

Surprisingly, it was Sherlock who got them back on subject.  "You think I'm frustrated."

"You _are_ frustrated.  With me, with the case."

"The case is solved.  Over.  You, however, are still frustrating."  Sherlock huffed out a breath, a puff of mist in the cool air. "Exceedingly."

"And you're the perfect example of someone who's easy to live with."  They both smiled a bit at that, and the tension eased between them.  John decided to press a little.  "And I noticed you didn't answer my question: do you want me to stay?"

"Of course I do.  I've thought of little else since you brought it up at the hospital.  Your moving back in, I mean, and what you said, and  _why_."  He moved a bit closer there along the fence, lowered his voice.  "I can almost still feel it when you -- when you picked up my hand, and touched your face."  It was too dark to see, but Sherlock's hesitance over the words gave strong indication that he was either blushing or simply embarrassed.  "It was tingly."

"I've been well aware of why _I_ am frustrated.  I wasn't sure about your reasons."  John hesitated before deciding to plunge ahead.  "I'm not sure how much more you can tolerate before turning to ... other things."

"I'm clean.  I'm not using.  And at the moment I'm not interested in that."  John could hear before seeing the smile on Sherlock's face.  "Although a cigarette right now would be glorious."

"No. I'll get you a new patch back at the flat."

"Wearing two already, ta."

"Totally in control of this area, you said."

"They are nothing.  And useless."  There was a snort into the night air.  "Mostly, the patches are just another reason for you to fuss at me."

"Sherlock."  He waited a bit, considering that Sherlock had come after him, that it had mattered enough to him to find him, initiate a conversation.  "The thing that's stopping me from leaving is you.  Of course."

Unexpectedly, Sherlock's tone grew serious again as well.  "I want what you said you wanted, too."  At that, John had looked over to assure himself that Sherlock had truly spoken those words.  "I just don't know how to get there from here."

"You mean that?"

"I was willing to break every piece of pottery in the kitchen to get a rise out of you, and to knowingly risk the wrath of Mrs. Hudson, mind you. Does that give you enough information?"

"Well, that's certainly something, anyway."

The night air was cool, and they stood shoulder to shoulder, still facing the opposite way.  "Can we head, I don't know, back?  If you're ready, I mean."

"Expect so," John said, although he couldn't leave it alone.  "What's the matter? Not a fan of cemeteries?"

There was a self-deprecating smile lurking about Sherlock's face.  "No I am not."

"I minded them a lot more when I thought my best mate was buried in one."

"I thought perhaps you were contemplating putting me back in one, for real this time."

"God, Sherlock.  Of course not.  And it was an accidental place to have this conversation."

"You still chose it."  Sherlock kept his back to the place, still.

"It's not the first time I've had an emotionally charged conversation with you in a cemetery, you'll recall."  While the comment could have been said with malice, it was not, and shortly after the sentence was out, there was a quiet giggle from John.  "Although apparently I should never assume someone's not hiding behind a tree in there.  Never know who might be listening."

"Yes, there is that."

By mutual agreement, they turned to leave, falling into step together, as best as they could given the size differential, and had only gone a block or so when John peeled off quickly to dart behind a hefty shrub on one side of the tree-lined street.  Sherlock had only taken a stride to follow, when John smartly grabbed his coat, pulling him alongside him, into the landscaping.

"Be careful of things hidden behind a tree," he said again, quietly, and without giving Sherlock time to consider any other option or discussion, he pulled him close, one hand behind Sherlock's upturned coat collar and the other grabbing the buttoned front.  Their lips met, firm, dry, a bit disjointed and uncoordinated.  It was only a press of a few drawn out seconds until they drew apart, panting, breaths exchanged, and John did it again, firmer, letting his lips open, tongue just barely come against Sherlock's mouth.  The kiss deepened into a hungry, seeking, ravenous exploration of mouths, hands desperately pulling bodies closer, until finally Sherlock lifted his head, the gasp indicative of longing and desire.

The deserted section of street was lit enough that the glittering pairs of dark eyes that were holding was readily apparent.  John moved back enough to brush his fingers into Sherlock's curls while reaching for Sherlock's coat buttons.  "Can I --?"

"John."  

The coat opened and John's hand could feel warmth radiating from Sherlock's dress shirt.  He slid sturdy fingers around behind Sherlock's waist, a thin layer of fabric preventing skin to skin contact.  "Can I," he began again, his fingers stilling over Sherlock's belt buckle, "touch you?"

"I'll be profoundly disappointed if you don't."

Both of them watched quietly as John leaned back to allow his hand to slide down, from belt buckle to zip to the top of Sherlock's thighs, skimming the hard, throbbing outline of Sherlock's erection.  John's own eyes, he knew, were huge when he was rewarded with Sherlock's erratic breathing and the tremor Sherlock couldn't contain as he rocked very slightly, then pressed more forcefully into John's hand.  "How long has it been?"

"I never have.  I thought you knew that."

"You feel amazing."  The pressure of John's stroking hand increased.  "But I don't want to rush you."

"I do want to rush, but your chosen location, again, may be less than optimal."

"Agreed."  As John lightened his touch, he replaced the sensations, the _throbbing insistent_ sensations, with the press of his lips against Sherlock's again.  The heat of the snog grew, tongues and teeth coming into play for a bit, then very intentionally, John slowed his movements, eventually stepped back.

"All right if we go home now?"

"All right if I may be walking a little stiffly at first?"

"Least you have a long coat to cover up with."

They both eyed the other up, and the front of John's trousers was clearly bulgingly tight.  "Can I -- I want to --" Sherlock began with keen interest, reaching a hand in his direction.

"Absolutely not.  Not here.  One touch from you right now, and it would be over before we even get started."  There was pain in John's longing voice.  "But soon, as much as you want.  As often as you want.  Please."

###

The first time that night had been awkward and quick and messy and yet still incredibly sweet and tender.  They'd only made it into Sherlock's bedroom by sheer willpower, tumbling onto the bed with hands getting all tangled up in the efforts to remove clothing, and then clothing getting hung up on various shoes they'd been in too much of a hurry to untie first.   Even if John hadn't asked about Sherlock's sexual past, he would have figured it out early on, just with the hesitancy and the atypical caution, the obvious inexperience.  The trembling of Sherlock's entire body that started just as John's hand closed around him, was a profound discovery for them both - to Sherlock's mortification and John's sympathy.  When John realised the depth of his nervousness, in truth of _their_ nervousness, he adjusted his grip to include both of them, and began stroking.  It took neither of them long to reach completion, the gasping, stiffening, and finally, _release_.  Sherlock's tremors lasted long minutes, and when John moved to find something to clean up with, they were even stronger when John returned to the bed to pull the covers up.  Drawing him close over his shoulder, John moved and adjusted Sherlock's long limbs to suit him, turned his lips to press against Sherlock's temple.  It wasn't until John whispered how wonderful and amazing this night had been that Sherlock's burrowed closer against John's warm skin, his body finally able to relax, finally, the shaking that finally ceased, with Sherlock surrounded by John - his body as well as his words.

There had been many times since, and they'd discovered some interesting preferences.  Sherlock's sensitive hair follicles, for instance, were nearly akin to foreplay when John had first accidentally managed to massage his scalp, while John found that his orgasm lasted longer when Sherlock squeezed tight over his nipples.  They'd experimented with positions - topping, bottoming, side-lying options.  The flat felt even more like home when John moved in thoroughly and fully into the bedroom with Sherlock.

They had not, however, talked much about anything terribly serious, yet.  John worked his shifts, Sherlock continued to assist with cases, with John joining when he was able, and work on a few odd ash experiments.  John met his friends occasionally for pints - Army buddies or rugby mates - and Sherlock whinged about but still met with his counselor and attended his weekly support group.  

But those peaceful, angst-free days were numbered, John could feel it brewing.  There were also a few times things were uncomfortably awkward between them - words unsaid, the concerns and level of trust between them.  John was beginning to suspect that something was most definitely _up_.

###

One morning just as the light was beginning to peek from behind the draperies, John rolled to his side, his bladder finally insisting on some attention.  Before he could even get his feet off the mattress, Sherlock's hand clamped around his wrist.  "Stay."

Chuckling, John shook his head and his arm from Sherlock's grasp.  "I'll be right back."

There was a whiny sulk as Sherlock flopped the opposite direction, his body language conveying quite clearly that he was unhappy, displeased at John's exiting the bed.

When John returned, Sherlock's eyes were darkly visible, open, brightly watching him peel back the duvet and slide his cool feet in and sliding them onto Sherlock's warm legs.  "Did ya miss me?" he quipped, not an unwelcome question and certainly reminiscent of their history.  He was poised to ask again, repeatedly, when Sherlock interrupted him.

"Shut up.  You are not funny at all."

"Why are you in such a mood?"

"Because Mycroft is coming over today, and there is not enough time or enough tea to prepare me to tolerate him."

"What's he coming over for?"

There was the briefest hesitation in Sherlock's answer that John knew the answer was going to be a partial truth.  "To torment me.  Something about mummy's birthday next month.  Or something equally ridiculous."

"You'll be fine."

"You say that because you'll be treating snotty-nosed children, prescribing unnecessary antibiotic therapy, and diagnosing esophageal reflux while I'm being subjected to his arrogant presence."

"I don't prescribe unnecessary antibiotics and you know it."

"If they complain loudly enough, you probably do."

"You're complaining pretty loudly yourself right now.  What would you like me to do about _your problem?"_

" _Mycroft_ is my problem at the moment."  The smirk was back, and Sherlock shifted his body so that they were touching in a few places under the covers, and he added, "One of them, anyway."

John considered the degree of agitation that Sherlock had reached and the length of time he had before he had to leave for work.  "I can't help you with him directly, but I can definitely," he began, reaching out his hands toward Sherlock's stubbled face before sliding his fingers confidently and strongly into his hair, tugging just a bit from both sides, "provide a very pleasurable distraction for you."

"God, John. Finally.  If we hurry, you'll still have time to make tea before you leave."

###

That niggling sensation that something was more than met the eye was never stronger than one evening when John returned home slightly ahead of schedule to find Greg Lestrade in the sitting room.  The conversation stalled very abruptly, as if hitting a brick wall, when John opened the door of the flat.  Neither recovered well, and when John became full aware that he was an interloper, he begged off to leave the flat again.  While they convinced him - too vehemently, protesting entirely too much - to stay, the evening ended on an unsettling note.  John didn't ask any questions as he watched Greg pocket an envelope and close the screen quickly on his mobile.  He kept seeing, however, the almost guilty expression on Greg's face when he'd spied John.  Obviously, there was something afoot between the two of them, and John tried hard not to let his mind begin to question improper, illegal, or otherwise unwelcome activities.

It went to an entirely higher level the afternoon that John had just left for shopping but left his credit card on the desk.  He'd returned to retrieve it, heard Sherlock's end of a mobile conversation, and had hesitated outside the door before opening it.  Some of the phrases that rang out included "I'll meet you as we've done in the past" "No I don't want anyone there" "It's fine, I've got this" and "I just need to do this on my own", but when John heard, "I know what I'm doing, I know it's been a long time, it doesn't matter," he felt nauseous.

John had heard enough, then, and opened the door.  Sherlock immediately turned his back to John, "I'll ring you if anything changes."

"What's this all about then?" John asked, and it was clear from Sherlock's haste to get off the phone that John had assuredly interrupted something.

"Nothing.  Just, nothing."  He was rattled, and turned quickly and silently, the door to the bedroom closing resolutely, leaving John, his credit card, and the lump in John's throat by themselves in the sitting room.

###

Some late shifts at the surgery had John out longer than usual, and when Sherlock was home, he was tied up with a few cold cases and a remote one well outside London that he was solving long-distance.  The awkwardness between them was telling, and John attempted to ask about Sherlock's plans for the upcoming weekend.

"Why, do we have something on?" Sherlock had asked.

"No, I don't think so.  Maybe we could take in dinner and a show, or head to the pub, watch football."

"Because all of those things sound like something I'd be charming company during."

"Then you decide.  We've just been busy, and I'm... I'm a little worried about you."

"I'm fine."

He changed directions on the conversation.  "Have you thought about following up with your ... physician, who was your cardiologist again?"  John knew precisely who it was, and they both knew it.

"I said I was fine.  There's no need."

Picking up the novel he'd not had much time for lately, John knew Sherlock was frustrated with him and choosing to act already engrossed in something else.  There'd been no overt signs or any outward show of problems, but John's radar was on high alert.  A few minutes went by, and Sherlock grew suddenly restless and excited about something, grabbed his coat, and, muttering, dashed out of the flat.

###

John grabbed the next chart, an appointment for a new patient, from the clipboard holder outside the exam room. "Good afternoon, I'm Dr. Watson..." and by that point he was standing inside the door. Seated on the paper covered exam table wearing, also, only paper, was his flatmate.

The expression was one of challenge and feistiness, and Sherlock held his tongue, waited for John to respond.

"What brings you in today, Mr." and John consulted the form to find a benign alias, apparently, so he cleared his throat and queried "Holmes, isn't it?" The room was quiet as John flipped through the pages in the file, reading silently to himself.

"My partner insists I don't take care of myself. Thought a physical might be in order."

John could feel his heart rate accelerate, realising that this was the last appointment of the day and there was limited staff here already, but he crossed to the sink as would be his usual practice to scrub his hands. "Wise advice." He leaned slightly to read from the paper as he rinsed and began to dry. "It appears your vital signs, blood sugar, and weight are all acceptably within normal limits." John turned, leaning a hip against the counter. "Any complaints today?" Sherlock shook his head. "Any recent developments in your health?"

"I had an A&E visit a while back. I brought copies of my health summary."

"I already looked at it, but prefer to hear it from you. What happened?"

"Chest pain a few months back. Cardiac catheterisation. My coronary arteries were clean."

"Oh, well that is good news, at least.  Does heart disease run in your family?  You're a mite young to suffer angina, although it's not unheard of."  John was not about to let it go at that, and pressed for more information.

"It may have been cocaine related."

" _May have been_ ," he repeated, flipping to the copy of the toxicology screen which was indeed positive for the metabolite.  "Sounds like you got very fortunate."  John watched him carefully, and continued then, "Cocaine use can put a person at risk of sudden cardiac death secondary to heart attack."

"A friend got me to the hospital in time, yes." Their eyes met and held a moment while Sherlock decided what else to say about it. "I did some time in rehab, am still in an outpatient group."

"I'm glad to hear that. Many patients find that helpful."

"I'm not one of them."

 _Actually you are, but if you want to think otherwise, fine_ , John thought.  "Relapse is serious business, you know. I can provide referrals to a few other services if you want to try a different one." Sherlock was,  not surprisingly, already shaking his head no. "Well, that's fine. I would like your permission -- typically I would recommend testing for substances as part of your exam today, if you're amenable."

"Of course. I have nothing to hide." Had they been home, John may have laughed at that, because Sherlock was nothing if not almost always acting, hiding something, even for the sheer thrill of finding out how much he could get away with.

"All right. What kind of follow up have you had for the heart issue?"

"I haven't, actually." It had only been a few days since John had asked him about that.

"You should, you know. We can get an ECG today, but I would defer to your cardiologist about an echocardiogram, make sure pumping function has returned to normal."

"I'm sure it's not necessary. I can just follow up here.  With you."

John gave his best condescending smile, then, directly at him, turning on both the charm and the non-nonsense side of him. "You really should see the specialist, but we'll talk about that after your exam."

Sherlock rolled his eyes but didn't protest again. "Fine."

Approaching the table where Sherlock was eye-level, he withdrew a penlight from his white lab-coat pocket, began to explain what he was doing as he looked into eyes, nose, mouth, then grabbed the otoscope to gently view his ears. "You've got a little swelling in the right ear, any tenderness?" he asked as he set the light down, reaching up with confident clinician hands to palpate behind Sherlock's ear and jaw.

Their eyes met as John's fingers ended up in Sherlock's hair, an oddly charged gesture that could have been more than an assessing touch, and they both knew it.

John felt his jaw, then his neck, submandibular glands, before he moved around behind him to percuss quickly his lung fields. "No? That's good," he spoke through a few more steps of listening, cuing to breathe deeply when indicated. John circled the exam table, then, and slid the stethoscope against his left anterior chest, cautioning first, "Might feel cool." He listened and touched a few places while Sherlock was sitting, then looked him in the eye. "Lay back please." Sherlock's pupils dilated with pleasure and arousal, and moved an arm as if to reach out for John's waist to perhaps pull him close. Edging back out of the way, John had been watching for it, said quickly and in a low tone, "Stop. You can have one or the other," and at that, their eyes met again as John attempted to reestablish boundaries, and John clarified in a hoarse voice, "but I can't do both."

There was a deliberate huff in the room as Sherlock exhaled, and swung his feet up as John extended the exam table. With light hands, John pressed gently in all four abdominal quadrants, then deeper, evaluating liver and spleen, keeping up a rather bland verbal discussion of what he was doing, asking a few questions about overall health habits. "At this point," John said, one hand on Sherlock's arm as he spoke, "I would probably offer a prostate exam to a male patient of your age who was new to our office."

"I'm fairly certain we could skip that, I mean, it seems... you've already...   _No_ ," he let the sentence trail off, feeling the slightest flush creep up his neck. The smile broadened then, a nervous response, and he tried not to chuckle as he added, "Unless that's something you would like to do. Here. Like this." Even from his position on his back laying on the exam table, Sherlock was trying to dictate what was happening, and John stared back, the unspoken challenge rippling between them.

He knew in that moment, that instant, that Sherlock didn't expect him to do it, so rather than answer directly, he stepped to the wall rack, snapped on a pair of gloves and took a packet of lube from the drawer. "NHS recommends annual exams. So that settles that."

"Really?" Sherlock asked with the faintest elevation in tone of his voice, mildly alarmed. "Seriously, John?" and when John glared, one eyebrow raised, Sherlock amended, "Dr. Watson. I hardly feel it's necessary, given..."

"Now then, Mr. Holmes," John said, standing there at his side with a slightly indulgent look about him, "it's just a simple, quick, digital assessment." When Sherlock bit his lip, John continued, taking on a slightly patronizing air. "You did come to see me, here we are in my office, because you made an appointment for a physical examination."

"I think n--"

John stepped close then, "Now, really, there's nothing to worry about," and he smiled reassuringly, patting his arm as if soothing a truly nervous, uptight patient. "Up on your hip, turn away from me." With a firm hand, he pushed steadily until Sherlock did exactly that. "Now, just bend at the knee a bit, here," and he opened the lube, spread it a bit on his gloved fingers, and before there could be another word of protest, he raised the paper gown. "Just a moment, you'll feel my finger and a little pressure, bear down a bit if it's uncomfortable. You're doing fine, now," John assured him, rotating his hand to get the proper angle, "This bit, a little more pressure, might make you feel the urge to urinate, but I assure you, you won't, and I'll be quick," and by that point, John had withdrawn his finger, stepped back and was removing his gloves. "Prostate feels fine, by the way." He noted with a large degree of amusement that Sherlock was indeed surprised by the most recent, last minute addition to the exam. "You can sit up, we're almost done."

"Almost?" he asked with a faint squeak of nervous energy. "What more could there be?"

"Well, the ECG, for starters, check out your heart rhythm. You should have an echo over at the hospital, which I can write a scrip for before you leave. And lab work we can draw now, which we already discussed."

Sherlock, sitting there, looked away as if impatient.

"You came to see me, I will remind you. For a complete physical, which, all things considered, is a very good idea." When there was no answer, John smiled, continued. "You also chose the final appointment of the day, and some of the office staff who could do help with these things, have already left for the day. So it falls to me. Fortunately for you," John cleared his throat, "I like what I do and don't mind. If you're in that much of a rush, I can leave these things open and you can return tomorrow."

"Today's fine."

John slid a lab requisition slip from the holder, counted off a few lab tubes, and effortlessly obtained a bouquet of lab tubes.  "These will be collected by courier later this evening. I should have results tomorrow, and you'll get a phone call probably the day after."

"Or you can let me know later, at home."

John raised a disapproving eyebrow at him, shaking his head slightly. "I'll just see to this, next," and he entered patient data into the ECG machine there in the room, "so if you can lay back, I'll get you all hooked up." There were leads to apply, cables to connect, and very little conversation as John worked efficiently. "The most important piece of this exam that I haven't yet mentioned, will be next." He stood back, held up a cautionary hand, pushed a button and they both waited until the paper had printed for John to tear off and evaluate.  He scrutinized the report, then compared his own findings with the machine-generated interpretation.  "This is completely normal."  The report was added to Sherlock's folder, and John fiddled with the machine as he disconnected it, stowed it back where it had come from. 

"So what could possibly be next and, as you said, most important?"

"Dinner, of course.  With your personal physician." John crossed his arms as he leaned against the counter watching the patient, then picked up one last item to offer it to Sherlock.  "After you give me a urine sample."

There was a charged moment of challenge as John held out the sterile specimen container and Sherlock pointedly avoided looking at it. Huffing, then, with a dramatic loud sigh, he took it and said, "Fine.  But this time, I insist on no audience."

###

They were a bit late for a dinner seating, but Angelo welcomed them genuinely, clapping them both about the shoulder.  Before long, they'd ordered, been brought wine, and were sitting with a basket of bread a safe distance from the obligatory candle.  Once they'd both settled, sipped a bit of the merlot, Sherlock mentioned that he hoped the clean bill of health would help ease John's concerns.

"It's not about me, or about my concerns. It's about your health."

"All right, well, I'm healthy, and I'm clean, though, and you've been uptight."

"You're hiding something."

An eye narrowed back at John, and he worried briefly that he'd spoken out loud something that he should have kept to himself.  "You don't trust me."

"I'm trying.  I want to," John confessed.  "And I'm not sure you trust me, either."  The eye contact could have been awkward but wasn't.  "Or you would talk to me."

"Which brings me to why we are here.  Why I did what I did today."  Sherlock delivered the quiet statement with the serious expression that something is afoot, the ripple in the room palpable to John as he could sense manipulative behaviour and possibly being set up.

John's throat went dry as he speculated that perhaps he was going to be told his presence on Baker Street was no longer welcome, that Sherlock was turning to drugs to support them, or something else absolutely catastrophic that would require drastic life changes.  Again.  He hoped he was wrong.

"Stop it, I can hear you fretting."

In an attempt to alleviate the dry mouth, John sipped his water, leaned in the chair with hopefully more of a casual air than he was actually feeling, and kept his mouth shut.

"It's been six months in rehab, all told.  Or it will be next week, anyway."

"Six months already?"

The purse of Sherlock's lips expressed quite expressly his displeasure at John's repetition of his statement.  "The programme I'm in, once a person is clean for six months, they request that you continue attending twice per month for the next six months, but they recognise the six month interval as a beacon of success.  There's a meeting," John could hear the mock horror in his voice. "The counselor suggested inviting some of my friends, of which there are truthfully few, and finding a sponsor." John was familiar with the sponsor role, of course, a person to help monitor activities, to offer assistance, and hold someone accountable for their actions. "While I think it's ridiculous, it's rather indicative of my cooperation and, without it, I'm going to be labeled non-compliant."

"I think it's a good idea, and --"

Sherlock interrupted rather quickly. "I've spoken to Greg."  He sounded bored by the whole thing.  "He's agreed."

A hesitation on John's part nearly forced Sherlock to look away uncomfortably. "That's a good idea. He's helped..." John touched Sherlock's arm. "That's what you were talking about the other day when I came home."

"He insisted that I talk to you about it."

"I see you got right on that, then," John said, amused.

"Mycroft is the one who is insisting that I do this in the first place.  And he knew about the six month milestone.  He said that to _not_ invite you to the meeting would be hurtful to you, once you found out.   _If_ you found out."

John tried not to be offended, as it became apparent that Sherlock was more about the milestone being important than John's lack of importance.  "I would like to be there, yes, but -"

"Both of them threatened that if I didn't tell you about it, they would do it themselves."

"If you don't want me there, I don't -"

"I do."

"If you interrupt me again, I swear I'll -"

"John," he said, quickly with a sassy one-sided grin, and they both smiled a bit.

" - stop playing with your hair follicles the way you like."

"You wouldn't.  You like it too."

"I do, you're correct.  But six months, well, that's great.  I'd be happy to attend.  Thanks for telling me, I have been wondering."

"Mycroft and Greg will be there, and you, but that's it.  And that's three too many, in my opinion."

"Congratulations on the six months.  You've worked hard and earned it."

"I can actually say with some confidence now that I have no intention of ever going back to it."

"I'm glad. Your mind has always been amazing, and to dull it, to risk it, with ..." John could feel the passion rising, stopped with a smile of chagrin. 

There was a pause, and John waited him out, sensing there was something else he needed to say.

There was.

"I didn't ask you, John, to be my sponsor, on purpose."

"I know.  It's your choice."

"The counselor insisted it had to be someone impartial and objective."

John snickered at that.  "I am, obviously, neither of those when it comes to you."

"Your role is my life is much more than that, so Greg seemed a better choice."

"I've seen you manipulate him like you do everyone else, however."

"It's a pointless endeavor for me on any front, but one that seems to meet the requisite criteria."  He brushed his hands as if shooing away a fly, and then settled again as he tapped John's foot with his own.  "I can't guarantee anything, and neither can you.  I'm promising nothing, John.  But I have some, what my counselor would term 'life skills' and 'defensive manoeuvers' that should help in the event I am tempted." His derogatory use of air quotes and the accompanying snort were expected.

Thoughtfully, John touched his arm across the table, waited as Sherlock looked over. There was an openness to his eyes and his face, as if they were the only ones present, the isolated pair in the occupied restaurant. "You also have me."

###

Epilogue:

The pain in Sherlock's eyes was something that took John back to his early military days, across hot sands and the sound of gunfire, to the surgery suite where he learned that to think, to feel the losses of comrades in arms would be to incapacitate himself.  None of them could afford for anyone on the team to render themselves useless.  When the first corporal from his unit had died under his hands - too late, too much damage, fatal wounds - it was with the man's blood dripping down John's gloves, off the table, and onto his boot covers.  He recalled it vividly and remembered the aftermath, too, late in the officers mess when his mind had time to process.  He could still remember his own tears, the solid shoulders of some compassionate mate who'd obviously been through it before John.  Seeing the same pain, ache, grief, and loss in the pale blue eyes of his flatmate re-ignited that same pain he'd learned to bury, to breathe past, to sequester away.

A small crowd had gathered there as the met secured the scene, directed cars to safety, interviewed a few witnesses. The body on the kerb was being bagged and moved by the coroner while Lestrade spoke with the scene photographer.  Sherlock stared, and John let him for a few seconds in order to assimilate all the data he would need later.  Lestrade approached carefully as John came up next to Sherlock, slid his fingers in alongside Sherlock's, squeezed lightly.  Lestrade had two vague questions and then an apology, having made enough of the connection, and nodded to John.

"You all right?"

Blink.  Head turn.  Swallow.  "Yes," Sherlock said, solemnly.  John was quiet, tilted his head down the street as if to direct their steps, and Sherlock followed him, although his mind was elsewhere.  "Senseless."

"Yes," John agreed.

"He'd been clean.  Sober.  Job-searching, even."

"I'm sorry."

"He could hide in plain sight, see things many missed.  He's the one who gave me the information on..." and Sherlock continued a few moments as he shared what this member of his homeless network had done for him over the years.  When the litany of accomplishments faded, Sherlock paused, turned to John, seeing him with now very sharp eyes.  Eyes that were hurting.  "He didn't deserve this."

"And neither do you, to lose someone you cared about."  John edged his body closer to Sherlock's, his hand resting lightly on the small of Sherlock's back through his coat.

"This was stupid.  He was smarter than this."

"Agreed.  I'm sure he thought," and John hedged as the words he wanted to speak came to mind.  "I'm sure he thought he had it all under control."  The quiet delivery was not unkind or accusatory, simply softly spoken, in truth.

"He knew better, that he should have reduced his dose since it had been a while."

John could only nod.  It was very dangerous for an addict who'd been trying to come off whatever substance, to have a time of sobriety and then slip up, to use the same dose his body had been accustomed to and tolerating prior to getting clean.  It was truly an _overdose_.

"I won't do that to you, John."

"I know."

A troubled cloud came across Sherlock's face, and John could see that he was weighing his words, then pulled at John's sleeve.  "It's not a nice sight, to see someone you care about dead on the kerb."

A variety of options of verbal responses occurred to John, and after hesitating only a few seconds, he said somberly, "I would agree with that.  But," he was toe-to-toe with Sherlock, close enough that they could have kissed with minimal moving, and he brought his fingers up to Sherlock's temple, recalling where the blood had been squirted on him to add to the necessary ruse, the illusion, "you didn't stay there.  You came back to me."

"And you came back to me."  Sherlock's head lowered as John raised his, and there was movement of coat and arms as they ended up pressed together, lips first and then a drawn out embrace.  "I promise, John," he began.

Quickly, John raised his fingers to Sherlock's lips, quieting him.  "I only ever want one promise from you, someday when the time is right."  He substituted his lips for his fingers, letting the gesture communicate his emotion and sincerity as clearly as words ever would have.  "And when we decide that is, whenever it may be, I will make the same one back to you."

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So the medical appointment got away from me a bit, and once I'd written the mildly uncomfortable moment into it, I decided to leave it. Apologies if that was a little too much (and likely, well, as a writer, I guess I can allow them to do things that IRL wouldn't be very likely to happen?)
> 
> The next WIP is screaming at me from a tumblr draft, and I am forcing myself to stop editing this piece so I can move along with something else!
> 
> Hope you enjoyed, thanks for following!


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